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After 4,999 attempts on his best friend’s life, Satoru is proud to announce it’s gotten a lot easier. Muscle memory. Let me set the scene, says your omnipresent narrator:
They’ll be standing outside. In the middle of a crowded street. The crowd parts to pass them by, unthinkingly, unacknowledgingly, the way that schools of fish part to pass rocks in a river before merging back together in river sans rock. It’s always crowded. People pass by, and people don’t take notice.
The sky is grey and heavy, the way it’d been in real life. (Is this not real, mocks the voice in his head, is this pain not real?) Suguru will look particularly grey on these days, shadows stark against papery skin. It makes him look lifeless. It makes him look like he’s already gone.
He will be in Shinjuku. He will catch Suguru trudging down the crowded street, like a fish in a school in a river.
“Explain yourself, Suguru,” he will say, even though he knows everything already, needs no explanation. He’s heard it four-thousand and ninety-nine fucking times. He knows and he still asks. He asks, on the off-chance that the outcome will change.
Suguru will stand with his hands in the pockets of those ugly cargo pants of his and Satoru will remember when he called them ugly and Suguru had laughed and said, “the pockets are good for storage, okay?” and Suguru will not look him in the eye.
All 4,999 times, he refuses to look Satoru in the eye.
He’ll tilt his head a little, to avoid looking Satoru in the eye, and his hair, flowing down his back, will shift, ever so slightly. Satoru’s eye will be drawn to this, and Satoru will remember when he asked him if he’d ever cut his hair and Suguru had laughed and said, “haven’t thought about it, really. It’s no big deal if I tie it up.”
“You heard from Shouko,” Suguru will eventually say. He’ll shift his weight, from his right leg to his left. He still won’t look at Satoru. “There’s not much else to it,” he’ll say, as if there’s nothing else to explain. Nothing else to say.
Satoru is never quite able to control himself at this part.
People will continue to ignore them, streaming past like fish in a river. It brings him to fucking tears. His glasses (and Satoru will be reminded that Suguru bought these, Suguru bought these for him), clenched in his fist, will break. The sharp edges will pierce his palm. This is on a good day. He’s had, what, a couple hundred of those, in all 4,999 times he’s lived this, danced this dance, played this game?
On a bad day, the entire street will be reduced to rubble before he’s done. The people fizzle away when he touches them, like holograms, like reflected pictures in a river. Suguru stands unharmed among a destroyed street, before turning and walking away. He’ll squeeze his eyes shut. It’ll restart.
And all Suguru will do is stand there. Hands in his pockets. He’ll still not look at Satoru. He’ll still reply to Satoru’s screaming in that calm, flat voice.
Once upon a time, Satoru found comfort in Suguru’s calmness. Now, it sickens him. Unnerves him.
He’ll look up at Satoru but he’ll not really look at Satoru. His eyes will be blank gold. Here, Satoru remembers Suguru’s face, recently dead, white in the bright lights of the basement, the waver in his voice when he tells Satoru it wouldn’t bring Amanai back to kill those who sponsored her death. To jujutsu sorcerers, meaning is important.
Where is the line, he wonders, between a jujutsu sorcerer, and a curse user? Sorcerers do good, curse users do bad, but what is good and what is bad for murderers by profession?
And—“There is a meaning,” Suguru will say, and Satoru will remember a Suguru that said, “You see, Satoru, jujutsu exists to protect non-jujutsu users,” and he’ll look at this Suguru and he will simply be unable to put these Sugurus together. Facial recognition technology failed. Four-thousand and ninety-nine times. He cannot seem to reconcile the Suguru of the past, that argued that the purpose of jujutsu sorcerers are to protect non-sorcerers, and this Suguru standing before him, with the blood of 112 non-sorcerers on his hands. “A world of only sorcerers.” Wistful. Perhaps Suguru thinks it’s a good reason. Perhaps Satoru, less-adjusted, more unstable, would think it’s a good reason.
“That’s impossible,” he’ll say, the frog in his mouth says. He knows it’s not impossible. He knows everything. ‘That’s impossible,’ the frog on his tongue still says. “Trying things you know are impossible is as meaningless as it gets!”
And then he’ll be interrupted. This is how this dance goes; step up, diagonal, side, repeat. “That’s pretty arrogant,” Suguru will say. “Since it’s possible for you, right?”
The frog in his mouth jumps out and takes his voice with it. When he next speaks, it’s in a croak, like the frog’s become his esophagus, like—
“What?”
“Satoru,” that man will say, and he’ll finally fucking make eye contact, and he says Satoru’s name in the same wistful way he proclaims that goal of his, “if it’s possible for you, can you really go around telling people ‘it’s impossible’? You’re the strongest—but are you the strongest because you’re Gojou Satoru? Or are you Gojou Satoru because you’re the strongest?”
“What the hell are you saying?” he’ll say, without the frog in his mouth, all 4,999 times.
Suguru looks away. His face will shutter itself off, draw the stage curtains, thunderous applause. “If I could become you,” he adds, “then this foolish ideal would be perfectly plausible, wouldn’t it? If you wanted to create a world of shamans... Nobody would stop you.”
And with that, he’ll turn around and rejoin the crowd of swimming fish. “I’ve decided how I want to live. So I’ll just do what I can for that.”
This, your unreliable narrator whispers into your brain, gleeful. Watch this. This is the moment Gojou Satoru truly loses control.
He lifts his hand for the four-thousand and ninety-ninth time, and tries to kill Getou Suguru.
#
(Well, fuck.
It hasn’t gotten easier at all.)
#
He meets Suguru in the height of summer.
Their first meeting is set in the middle of a crowded street in Shinjuku. How funny, that it all works out this way. It’s one of those oppressively hot summer days, where you turn to swat the fly running down your neck and it turns out to be a bead of sweat running down your neck. They’re in Shinjuku to pick up Getou Suguru, the third student in Jujutsu High’s class of 2008, Satoru’s soon-to-be best friend, his soon-to-be tailor-made nightmare.
He’ll be shoving coins into an old vending machine, jabbing his finger into the faded button that once said ‘8’, catching the cold cream soda that tumbles out the bottom. It’ll be covered in condensation, and he’ll crack it open and gulp down half the bottle while wiping his wet hand on his trousers.
This is where the cycle starts. He watches a 17-year-old Suguru walk away for what he once thought would be forever. Then, he blinks, and he’s stepping toward a vending machine, hot coins in his palm.
He blinks. He moves his finger to the bright ‘4’ button, and presses that instead. The bottle that comes tumbling out of the chute is cream soda, still. When he looks up at the vending machine window, option A4 is also cream soda. All of the options, actually, are cream soda. The exact same cream soda.
“Ah, he’s here,” he hears Yaga-sensei say. “Getou-kun! Over here!”
When he “first” meets Getou Suguru, he’ll be holding a half-empty bottle of cream soda, and he’ll make that satisfied fizzy exhale you make after chugging half a bottle of cream soda. It’ll be summer. Yaga-sensei will frown at him and Shouko will roll her eyes and turn toward this Getou Suguru and stick out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Ieiri Shouko. Welcome to Jujutsu High.” She’ll elbow Satoru in the ribs, but he’ll dodge because he knows how this all goes. Knows the steps to this waltz.
“Gojou Satoru,” he says, swinging the soda between his fingers. One-step. There’s music playing but nobody can hear it.
“Nice to meet you,” comes the reply, comes the two-step. “I’m Getou Suguru.”
In the height of summer, Gojou Satoru meets Getou Suguru. Coincidentally or not, it is in the height of summer, three years later, when they part ways.
#
After his second attempt on his best friend’s life, Satoru chases after him. He trips over his feet. He reaches out for Suguru’s shoulder as he rounds the corner—
and opens his palm to warm coins and an old vending machine in front of him.
#
After four attempts on his best friend’s life, Satoru doesn’t give chase. He doesn’t do anything. He sits on the curb with his head in his hands and Getou Suguru walks past him and rounds the corner and then he opens his eyes to the old vending machine, again.
He bends over and retches and nobody notices or reacts or cares, because that’s not how the dance goes. He greets the new Getou Suguru with a handful of coins and no cream soda, and round number 4 plays out as it normally does.
#
After nine-hundred and ninety-nine attempts on his best friend’s life, Satoru makes an attempt on his own.
Of course Suguru has to be the one that finds him, filling a tub with his blood.
They blame it on a high level curse. It got into his brain, or something. Made him erratic.
Thing is, they’re not even wrong. Getou Suguru sits by his bedside and Satoru stares, stares, stares.
#
Where does the end begin? Does it begin at the beginning, because from the beginning we are marching toward the end? Does it begin at the end, the instant before the ending, overlapping the ending, is the ending
#
Mission: Escort star plasma vessel Riko Amanai to Master Tengen, and erase her.
#
“The beginning of the end,” he laughs to himself.
“Hm?”
“It’s nothing.”
#
They will fly to Okinawa in a jet bought by the wrinkly jujutsu higher-ups, flanked by Suguru’s curses. They’ll rescue Kuroi. They’ll go to the beach, and let their thirteen-year-old charge have a fun final day of her life.
There will be a gift shop by the beach. He remembers the air-conditioning had been really fucking cold, and the shop smelled like coconut, and salt. There will be a lovely flower-printed shirt in the window, which Suguru buys for himself, and a sunhat, which Satoru buys for Amanai, despite Kuroi’s insistence on paying, because you’ve already done enough for them—
“Pay with what?” he laughs, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. “Didn’t the kidnappers take all your money?” She flushes, and he laughs, and Suguru asks what he’s laughing at and to stop being rude, Satoru. I’m not being rude, he protests. Sure you aren’t, Suguru replies.
It’s a nice day. Blue sky, white clouds. They will go wading through tide pools, clambering over sun-warmed rocks. He picks up a sea cucumber, hiccuping over his laughter as it squirms out of his grasp and flops back into the water. Shells, sea glass, little yellow crabs. They splash through foamy surf and point at similarly foamy clouds shaped like animals.
They won’t leave at 3PM, as planned. He’ll make a dozen excuses. Suguru will take his arm and bring him aside. “Are you really okay?” he says lowly, which would be one loaded fucking question if it came from anyone other than Suguru.
It’s different when it comes to Suguru.
“I’m good,” he says. He’ll smile. Tilt his head. “Besides, you’re here too.”
I trust you.
He ropes Suguru and Kuroi into their sightseeing, despite the migraine beginning to build behind his eyes. He’s strong, but he’s never had to use his technique to protect this many people for this long. Suguru sees. Suguru has a curse swim beneath the water, pushing the canoe along, and Satoru can focus less on moving the boat and more on keeping a smile on his face and not dropping the paddles.
They’ll pick water lilies. Kuroi will make a flower crown for Amanai. They’ll eat cold noodles with thinly sliced beef and pickled radish and cucumber. Suguru drizzles a deplorable amount of chili sauce into his bowl, and his mouth is a flushed red after they finish.
Suguru will buy Amanai a pretty sundress, and they’ll visit the underground aquarium. In the darkness, with Kuroi and Amanai in another part of the aquarium, he lets his head tip onto Suguru’s shoulder. Suguru lets him.
#
Of course, the girl dies too.
#
As you lie in a pool of your own blood, phantom hand crushing your neck, you will feel the thrill and fear of death even though you’ve felt it 4,999 times before. You’ll see everything. You’ll taste blood. You’ll regret everything.
It burns you. Burns you away.
#
Satoru is proud to announce it's as easy as ever to kill Fushiguro Toji.
#
He hears the sound of the door over the din of Star Cult applause.
He’ll look up from the pale face of the girl in his arms to the equally pale face of his friend. “Suguru,” he’ll say, and he’ll realise he doesn’t have anything to say. “You’re late.” Everything is so bright, like hell.
He rambles.
Suguru will look at him in a strange way. Satoru supposes he looks a strange way. “You’re Satoru... right?”
“You went to Shouko already, right?” he asks instead of answering. He’s not sure who he is. He’s tired. He wants to die. He thinks he must be dead, and this bright room must be hell.
“Yeah, I—she fixed me up.” Pause. “I’m fine. I... No.” It’s the first—four-thousand, ninety-ninth—time he’s seen Suguru unable to string words together. He looks up again, and Suguru’s lips are pressed together in grief. “It doesn’t matter that I’m fine.”
“I messed up,” he whispers, letting his hair fall into his face. “It’s not your fault.”
He gains a new sort of enlightenment. Served to him by people who smile and clap at the death of a young girl. A thirteen year old. Bathed in their unholy white light, they smile, they clap.
“Suguru,” he says, “should we kill these guys?” Maybe he’ll feel better. Maybe he’ll feel worse. There’s a large chance he’ll feel worse. He’s fraying at the edges.
“If we do it now...” Her body is cold and heavy in his arms. His eyes burn, and then he remembers he needs to blink. “I probably won’t feel a single thing.”
Killing people is wrong. This is what you’re taught, when you’re young, and you’re born with God’s eyes and God’s hands. God’s power. God’s right to do anything you want.
Morals?
What are morals to God?
Suguru is the virtuous one of the two. He’s the good one. The kind one. But even he, the upright moral compass, doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Eventually, “No. There’s no meaning in that.”
Not ‘killing is wrong.’
Not ‘jujutsu exists to protect non-jujutsu users.’
“‘Meaning’...” Satoru echoes. “Is that really necessary?”
He looks at the limp body of Riko Amanai. He sees the cold, expressionless face of Riko Amanai and he can’t help but remember her smiling face, with her sunhat and pretty sundress, and the crown of white flowers. He thinks, is this not meaning enough?
And Suguru will hesitate again. That golden compass, once flawless and unshaken, splits down the edge. A crack that grows, grows, grows. He tapes it shut, covers the crack with his hands. It doesn’t fix the break, but—
#
Do you want to hear about, the demon/unreliable narrator whispers into your mind, the worst day of Gojou Satoru’s life?
September 5th, 2007. The day never changes. His memory grows dull, foggy when it approaches. He’s come to know to be wary of the fogginess in his brain, but never remembers why until—
“Satoru.” September 5th, 2007, says the little calendar on Yaga-sensei’s desk. He stares at the little cursed puppet. He stares at the sheet of paper that Yaga-sensei hands him.
#
Mission: Exorcise the cursed spirit thought to be causing mysterious disappearances and strange deaths. Location: XX City Person-In-Charge: Getou Suguru, special grade sorcerer
Update: All 112 remaining inhabitants of XX City found deceased - killed by cursed spirit Getou Suguru
Under Article 9 of the regulations of Jujutsu, Getou Suguru is now to be executed on sight as a curse user.
#
Ah, he remembers now.
He stares at the sheet of paper until his hand is trembling so hard the words become blurs and the paper trembles out of his fingers. Yaga-sensei picks it up, and puts it on the desk. He swallows, visibly, before he speaks.
“There’s nothing left in Suguru’s home. But going by... the bloodstains and remains, he likely... attacked his parents, as well.”
Not Suguru. Not him. Not him not him not him. Please, he begs. For the first time since he was born, he prays to God.
Yaga-sensei rubs his forehead, anguish making him old. “Satoru. I...” He breathes out, shakily. “I don’t get why this is happening either.”
(Of course, God ignores him.)
For the first time in months, his head is clear. Rushing with the sound of his blood in his ears. His head is clear for the first time and he hates what he sees.
Why is this happening? he’ll think. He’ll—he sinks to the ground, hands gripping at his hair, face. His eyes will burn. He’ll burn, crouched there he’ll burn and burn and flame and it’ll leave him an empty, scorched husk. He’ll stare at Yaga-sensei’s shoes, until those go up in flame too.
#
“Ah, Gojou? I met Getou. In Shinjuku.”
#
And here he is, back in Shinjuku. Here he is, a puppet enacting his own torture. Here he is again. He puts the frog in his mouth.
“Hey, Satoru.” A half-smile, hands tucked into his pockets. Gold eyes. The lopsided tap-tap of his shoes on the pavement, because he’s always favoured his right leg, even when uninjured. They’d never managed to get it exactly right.
Until now.
How is he to forget these footsteps that accompanied him for so long? How is he to forget the wry twist of lips that his best friend called a smile? How is he to forget?
Your deranged narrator begins to laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.
You’re supposed to trust what you see. This is what they teach you, when you’re young. You can trust the things you see, with your own two eyes. And when you’re born with the eyes of God himself, it’s a given. You can trust what you see, they say. Your eyes will never lie to you.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
What will you do, Gojou Satoru? the narrator cackles, what will you do now?
#
He raises his hand.
What else can he do?
He lifts his hand for the 5000th time, and tries to kill Getou Suguru.